I Lost My Mind
by Totorooo99
Summary: Words have always swirled around me like snowflakes—each one delicate and unique. Deep within me, words pile up in huge wafts. Mountains of phrases and sentences and connected ideas, clever expressions. Jokes. Love songs. By the time I was two, all my memories had words, and all my words had meanings. But only in my head. I have never spoken one single word and I am almost sixteen.
1. Chapter 1: Puppet

**I do not own Ouran High School. All rights reserved to Bisco Hatori. **

**But I do own my original characters.**

**Feel free to leave reviews~!**

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**Chapter 1**

******Jacqueline's POV**

**I can't talk. I can't walk. I can't feed myself or take myself to the bathroom. It's pathetic, right?**

My arms and hands are pretty stiff, but I can mash the buttons on the TV remote and move my wheelchair with the help of the knobs that I can grab on the wheels. I can't hold a spoon or a pencil without dropping it. And my balance is like zip—my control level: zero.

When people look at me, I guess they see a sixteen year old girl with long, dark, wavy hair strapped into a pink wheelchair. By the way, **_nothing_** is cute about a pink wheelchair. Pink doesn't change a thing.

They'd see a girl with a heart shaped face. Her head wobbles a little. Sometimes she drools. Her big brown eyes were the only thing that made her seem like any normal teenage girl, as they were always full of curiosity.

She's really tiny for a girl at the age of sixteen. Her legs are very thin, probably because they've never been used. Her body tends to move on its own agenda, with feet sometimes kicking out unexpectedly and arms occasionally flailing, connecting with whatever is close by—a stack of CDs, a bowl of soup, a vase of roses.

Not a whole lot of control there.

After folks got finished making a list of what is wrong with me, they might take time to notice that I have a fairly nice smile and deep dimples; of course, they always seem to overlook me.

Sometimes people never even ask my name, as if it was not important. It is. My name is Jacqueline Santiago; A proud half-Korean, half-Filipino. Though, I guess I can't blame them as much, I mean, I can't talk to answer back.

I can remember way back to when I was really, really young. Or course, it's hard to separate real memories from the videos of me that dad took on his camcorder. I've probably watched those things a million times now, literally.

Jacqueline tucked into a tiny baby bathtub, my arms and legs looked so skinny. I didn't splash nor kick.

Jacqueline propped with blankets in the living room sofa—a look of contentment on my face. I never cried much when I was a baby; mom swears it's true.

Mom massaging me with lotion after a bath, then wrapping me in a fluffy towel with a little hood built into one corner.

Dad took videos of me getting fed, getting changed, and even me sleeping. As I got older, I guess he was waiting for me to turn over, and sit up and walk. I never did.

But I did absorb everything. I began to recognize noises and smells and tastes; the sound of the furnace coming alive each morning, the tangy odor of heated dust as the house warmed up, the feel of a sneeze in the back of my throat.

And music. Songs floated through me and stayed. Lullabies, mixed with the soft smells of bedtime, slept with me. Harmonies made me smile. It's like I've always had a painted musical sound track playing background to my life. I can almost hear colors and smell images when music is played.

Mom loves classical. Beethoven symphonies would blast from her CD player all day long and I would just sit there and relax with her as they always seem to be bright blue as I listen.

Dad is partial to jazz, and every chance he gets, he winks at me, takes out mom's Mozart disc, and then pops in a CD of Miles Davis or Woody Herman. Jazz to me sounds brown and tan. Jazz music drives mom crazy, which is probably why Dad puts it on.

"Jazz makes me itch," she says with a frown as Dad's music explodes into the kitchen.

Dad goes to her, gently scratches her arms and back, and then engulfs her in a hug. She stops frowning. But she changes it back to classical again as soon as Dad leaves the room.

For some reason, I leaned toward pop ballads. Something about the slow and soft, smooth singing of the singers just hit me. Like TVXQ's "Bolero". That was one of my favorite, especially since the music seemed to entice something inside me.

It surprised how I would even remember the name of songs or the type of music they were. Mostly, though, I remember words. Very early I figured out there were millions of words in the world. Everyone around me was able to bring them out with no effort.

The salesperson on television: _But one and get two free! For a limited time only._

The mailman who came to the door: _Mornin', Mrs. Santiago. How's the baby?_

The choir at church: _Hallelujah, hallelujah, amen._

The checkout clerk at the grocery store: _Thanks for shopping with us today._

Everybody uses words to express themselves. Except me. And I bet most people don't realize the real power of words. But I do.

Thoughts need words. Words need a voice.

I loved how my mother would take her time out of the day to make sure I was fed, dressed, and bathed. I loved how my father would make an effort to get me to talk, walk and stand on both feet without losing my balance. I loved how they would never give up on me. But I hated how they would seem to sigh and cry in frustration when times were tough, how sorry I was to make them to go through all the trouble to take care of me.

But I'd never be able to tell them that.

I guessed I figured out I was different a little at a time. Since I never had trouble thinking or remembering, it actually sort of surprised me that I couldn't do stuff. And it made me angry.

My father brought home a small stuffed cat for me when I was really little—less than a year old, I'm sure. It was white and soft and just the right size for chubby baby fingers to pick up. I was sitting in one of those baby carriers on the floor—strapped in and safe as I checked out my world of green shag carpet and matching sofa. Mom placed the toy cat in my hands and I smiled.

"Here Jacqueline. Daddy brought you a play-pretty," she cooed in that high-pitched voice that adults use with children.

Now what's a "play-pretty"? As if it's not hard enough figuring out real stuff, I have to figure out the meanings of made-up words.

But I loved the soft coolness of the little cat's fur. Then it fell on the floor. Dad placed it in my hands the second time. I really wanted to hold it and hug it. But it fell on the floor once more. I remember I got mad and started to cry.

"Try again, sweetie," dad said, sadness decorating the edges of his words. "You can do it." My parents placed the cat in my hands again and again. But every single time my little fingers could not hold it, and it tumbled back down to the carpet.

I did my own share of tumbling onto that rug. I guess that's why I remember it so well. It was green and ugly when you looked at it up close. I think shag carpeting was outdated even before I was born. I had lots of chances to figure out how the threads of a rug are woven as I lay there waiting for someone to pick me up. I couldn't roll over, so it was just an irritated me, the shag rug, and the smell of spilled sour soy milk in my face until I got rescued.

My parents would prop me up on the floor with pillows on either side of me when I wasn't in the baby seat. But I'd see a sunbeam coming through the window, turn my head to watch the little dust things that floated in it and _bam,_ I'd be face-first on the floor.

I'd shriek, one of them would pick me up, quiet me, and try to balance me better within the cushions. Still I'd fall again in a few minutes.

But then dad would do something funny like try to jump like the frog were watching on Sesame Street, and it would make me giggle. And I'd fall over again. I didn't _want_ to fall or even mean to. I couldn't help it. I had no balance at all. None.

I didn't understand at the time, but my father did. He would sigh and pull me up onto his lap. He'd hug me close and hold up the little cat, or whatever toy I seemed to be interested in, so I could touch it.

Even though he sometimes made up his own vocabulary, dad never spoke baby talk to me like my mother did. He always spoke to me as if he were talking to a grown-up, using real words and assuming I would understand him. He was right.

"Your life is not going to be easy," he'd say quietly. "If I could switch places with you, I'd do it in a heartbeat. You know that, don't you?"

I just blinked, but I got what he meant. Sometimes his face would be wet with tears. He'd take me outside at night and whisper in my ear about the stars and the moon and the night wind.

"That stars up there are putting on a show just for you, kid," he'd say. "Look at that amazing display of sparkle! And feel that wind? It's trying to tickle your toes."

And during the day, he would sometimes take off all the blankets my mother insisted I be wrapped in and let me feel the warmth of the sun on my face and legs.

He had placed a bird feeder on our porch, and we would sit there together as the birds darted in, picking up seeds one at a time.

"That red one is a cardinal," he'd tell me, and "that one over there is a blue jay. They don't like each other much." And he'd chuckle.

What dad did most was sing to me. He has a clear voice that seems made for songs like "Yesterday" and "I Want to Hold Your Hand." Dad loves the Beatles. No, there's no figuring out parents why they like stuff.

I've always had very good hearing. I remember listening to the sound of my father's car as he drove up our street, pulled into the driveway, and rustled in his pocket to find his house keys. He'd toss them on the bottom step, and then I'd hear the sound of the refrigerator door open—twice. The first time he'd get something cold to drink. The second time he'd search for a huge hunk of Muenster cheese. Dad loves cheese. It doesn't agree well with his digestive system very well, though.

Dad has the loudest, most stinky fats in creation. I don't know how he manages to control them at work, or even if he does, but when he'd get home, he'd let them loose. They'd start as he walked up the stairs.

_Step, fart._

_ Step, fart._

_ Step, fart._

I'd be laughing by the time he got to my room, and he'd lean over my bed and kiss me. When he could, dad read to me. even though I know he'd be tired, he'd smile, pick out a book or two, and I'd get to go to "Where the Wild Things Are", or to where "The Cat in the Hat" was making a mess.

I probably knew the words by heart before he did. _Goodnight Moon. Make Way for Ducklings._ Dozens more. The words to every single book my father ever read to me are forever tucked inside.

Here's the thing: I'm ridiculously smart, and I'm pretty sure I have a photographic memory. It's like I have a camera in my head, and if I see or hear something, I click it and it stays.

I saw a special on PBS once on children who were geniuses. These kids could remember complicated strands of numbers and recall words and pictures in correct sequence and quote long passages of poetry. So can I .

I remember the toll-free number from every infomercial, and the mailing addresses and websites, too. If I ever need a new set of knives or the perfect exercise machine, I've got that information on file.

I know the names of the actors and actresses of all the shows, and which shows are repeats. I even remember the dialogue from each show and the commercials in between.

Sometimes I wish I had a delete button in my head.

A delete button would come in handy whenever I see people tending to over look and socially-bias people like me. Even my doctors seem to misunderstand me because of my condition.

But I'm not complaining, I instead will plan and fight the odds. For I am only a girl trapped in an uncontrollable body, a puppet sitting in a wheelchair.


	2. Chapter 2: Superman

**Sorry for a late update, I was busy all week so I couldn't update the story x.x I hope none of you were confused about the first chapter. If you were, basically it was to give you an outline about Jacqueline's situation ^^ I'm glad you guys liked it, I'm not used to writing in first person .**

**I do not own Ouran High School. All rights reserved to Bisco Hatori. **

**But I do own my original characters.**

**Feel free to leave reviews~!**

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**Chapter 2**

**Jacqueline's POV**

"You ready for your first day back as a second year, Miss Thing?" asked Mrs. V.

Mrs. Violet Valencia lives next door to us. Violets are purple, and Valencia oranges are, well, orange! Purple oranges are just plain unusual, and so is she. She's a big woman—about six feet tall, with the biggest hands I've ever seen. I bet she could put a full-size basketball in each of her palms and still have room for leftover. If Mrs. V is, well, like a tree; then my mom is a twig next to her.

I looked at her and gave her a look. She only returned the look back at me. "Don't give me attitude Jackie, I know you can't communicate back at me."

I smirked and pointed at the words **people**, **look**, **you** and **crazy** on my communication board. She knew what I was trying to say and she huffed. "You're very lucky I can easily understand what you're trying to say or else I'd look like a dope trying to make out your thoughts."

I pointed to **my** and **plan**. She glared at me good naturedly and smiled. I sighed. It was one of those times I wished I could actually talk. Pointing at the limited vocabulary that was on top of my communication board really sucked, I mean, I couldn't even create a simple phrase without missing a few words.

How long has it been since I met Mrs. V? I was about two years old when I first started hanging out at Mrs. V's house, so I guess fourteen years? Math is not my forte.

Mom and dad hardly left me with anybody at first, but sometimes their work schedules overlapped, and they needed a third person to help out. Mom said Mrs. V was the very first visitor when I first came home from the hospital, the first person to just pick me up like any other baby. A lot of my parents' friends had been scared to even touch me, but not Mrs. V.

Mrs. V wears huge, flowing dresses—must be miles of material in those things—all in crazy color combinations; bubble-gum pink, with fire-engine red, with peachy sherbet, with bright cinnamon. And all shades of orange and purple, or course. I guess she'd have to. I have never seen anything like them in any store in the mall. Or in the hospital, either.

Mrs. V and mom used to work together as nurses in the hospital. Mom told me the children there had been crazy about her. She wore the same bright outfits in the preemie ward, the kids' cancer ward, the children's burn unit. "Color brings life and hope to those children!" she'd announce boldly, daring anybody to disagree. Of course, I was the first to dare and she would smile and ruffle my hair. Then I'd kick my chair for her to fix it again since I obviously can't.

I remember sitting on Mrs. V's porch that very first time. Mom and dad were looking at me concerned, but she held onto me tightly and bounced me on her knees. I just loved the fact that she treated me like any other baby.

"Of course I'll watch Jacqueline," she had said with certainty.

"Well Jacqueline is, well, you know, really special," dad said hesitantly.

"_All_ kids are special," Mrs. V replied with authority. "But this one has hidden superpowers. I'd love to help her find them."

"We can't possibly pay you what this is worth to us," ad began.

Mrs. V had shrugged and said with a smile, "I'll appreciate whatever you can give me."

My dad looked sheepish. "Well, thanks. And I'll get that ramp finished this weekend. I just need to make one more trip to the lumberyard."

"No, _that_ will be a big help," Mrs. V said with a nod.

"Jacqueline can be a handful," mom had warned.

Mrs. V lifted me up into the air. "I've got big hands."

"We want her to reach her highest potential," Dad added.

"Oh, gag me!" Mrs. V said, startling him. "Don't get bogged down in all those touchy-feely words and phrases you read in books on disabled kids. Jacqueline is a child who can learn and will learn if she sticks with me!"

And it was true. I'd usually end up at her place on workdays for a couple of hours until mom or dad could get home. When I got older, I went over to Mrs. V's every afternoon after school. I don't know how much they paid her, but it couldn't have been enough.

From the very beginning, Mrs. V gave me no sympathy. Instead of sitting me in the special little chair my parents had bought for me, she plopped me on my back in the middle of the floor on a large, soft quilt. The first time she did that, I looked up at her like she was crazy. I cried. I screeched. She ignored me, walked away, and flipped on her CD player. Loud marching band music blared through the room. I liked it.

Then she came back and put my favorite toy—a rubber monkey—a few inches from my head. I wanted that monkey. It squeaked when you touched it. But it may as well have been a million miles away. I was on my back, stuck like a turtle. I screamed louder.

Mrs. V sat down on the quilt. "Turn over Jacqueline," she said quietly. Sometimes she can make her voice really soft.

I was so shocked, I stopped yelling. I couldn't turn over. Didn't she know that? Was she nuts?

She wiped my nose with a tissue. "You can turn yourself over, Jacqueline. I know you understand every word I say to you, and I know you can do this. Now roll!"

Actually, I'd never bother to try hard to roll anywhere. I'd fallen off the sofa a couple of times, and it hurt, so I usually waited for mom or dad to move me to a comfortable position.

"Look at how you're lying. You're already on your side—halfway there. Use all that screaming and hollering energy and you've got to take you to another position. Toss your right arm over and concentrate!"

So I did. I strained. I reached. I tried so hard, I farted! Mrs. V cracked up. But slowly, slowly, I felt my body rolling to the right. And then, unbelievably, _plop!_ I was on my stomach. I was proud of myself, I screeched.

"I told you so," Mrs. V said, victory in her voice. "Now go get that monkey!"

I knew better than to protest. So I reached for it. The monkey was now only two inches from my hand. I tried to scoot. My legs kept doing the opposite of what my head wanted to do. I wiggled. I grabbed a fistful of the quilt and pulled. The monkey got closer!

"You're a smart little cookie," Mrs. V told me.

I gave the quilt another tug, and finally and gradually, I had the monkey in my hand. I clutched it and it squeaked, as if it were glad to see me. I grinned and made it squeak again and again.

Now enough of that little flashback, here I am, in Mrs. V's house with my little sister Penny. Penny is three and let me tell you, when I first heard my mom was pregnant, I prayed everyday that she wouldn't turn out like me. I didn't want anyone to suffer the challenges I have. Penny really was a perfect baby. After just a few months she was sleeping through the night and smiling through each day. She sat up exactly when infants are supposed to, rolled over right on schedule, and crawled on cue. Amazing.

Sure she'd fall a few times, but when she got it, she was off.

Penny would zoom around like a little windup toy. She learned that the toilet was fun to splash in and that lamps will fall if you grab the cord. She learned that golden retrievers are not ponies, peas taste funny, dead flies on the floor are a no-no, but candy was really good. She laughed all the time. She learned her sister, Jacqueline, couldn't do what she could do, but she didn't seem to care. So I tried not to care either.

"Your mom enrolled you into Ouran Academy yes?" Mrs. V asked as she sipped on her teacup. She watched Penny play with the ragdoll I had picked out for her for her last birthday and she didn't want to let go of it ever since. Coincidentally, she named the ragdoll Nickel. Go figure.

I nodded in response to the question and she wiped the corner of my mouth that happened to have drool coming out. "Close your mouth Jackie, if you're hungry, you could have just told me so."

I smiled and nodded as she got up to get the food. Usually my meals were supposed to be vegetables, meat, fruits and fish. No grains or sweets. But Mrs. V liked to spoil a fat me. She would always give me dessert first, whether it'd be a cupcake or butterscotch candy (my favorite!), she would just feed me the delicious sweets and then give me the healthy stuff later. There would always be a piece of bread or bagel with cream cheese on the side.

She would feed me spoonfuls and wait until I fully swallowed everything and would feed me again. "To be honest, I'm surprised they have accepted you." I waited for her to continue. "It's not every day a prestigious school that accepts special kids like you."

**Retarded** I pointed at. She glared at me. "Don't call yourself that Jackie, you are not retarded." I rolled my eyes and looked at her blankly. That's what doctors would tell me.

**_Doctors_**. Where do I start? Doctors really don't get me. Mom's a nurse, so I guess she speaks their language, but they sure don't know how to talk to me. Now I've seen dozen of doctors in my life, who all try to analyze me and figure me out. None of them can fix me, so I usually ignore them and act like the retarded person they think I am. I paste on a blank look, focus on one wall, and pretend their questions are too hard for me to understand. It's sort of what they expect anyway.

When I turned five, it was time to think about enrolling me in school. So my mother took me to a doctor whose job was to figure out how smart I was. She wheeled me in, locked the brake so my wheelchair would not roll, and made sure the lap strap was fastened. When my seat belt comes undone—and it does every once in a while—I slide out of that wheelchair like a piece of wet spaghetti.

The specialist was a very large man. The bottom button of his shirt had come undone, and his stomach poked through above his belt. Gross!

"My name is Dr. Hugely," he said in a booming voice.

For real. I couldn't make this stuff up.

"We're going to play a game today, okay? I'll ask you some questions, and you get to play with the toys here. Won't that be fun?"

I knew it would be a long, long hour.

He brought out a stack of well-used, hopefully not lead-tainted, wood blocks, then leaned in close to me so I could see the pores in his face. "Can you ask stack them in order according to size?" He said loudly and slowly, as if I were hard of hearing and really stupid.

But who was being stupid? Didn't he know I couldn't grab the blocks? Of course I knew which block was bigger than the other. But I couldn't stack them if he paid me money! So I just took my arm and swept them all to the floor. They fell with a wooden clatter. I tried not to laugh as he picked them up. He breathed really hard as he reached for them and I noticed he was slightly hunched over. That big belly of his must be weighing him down or something.

Next, he held up glossy eight-by-ten cards with different colors painted on each one. "Tell me when you see the color blue," he said in that voice that told me he thought this was all a waste of time.

When the blue card showed up, I pointed to it and made a noise. "Buh!" I said.

"Marvelous! Tremendous! Stupendous!" he shouted. He praised me like I had just passed the test to get into college.

Then he showed me green, so I kicked and made a noise, but my mouth can't make the _G_ sound. The doctor look disappointed.

He scribbled something on his clipboard, pulled out another stack of cards, then said loudly, "I'm going to ask you some questions now, Jacqueline. These might be hard but do your best, okay?"

I just looked at him and waited while he placed the first set of cards in front of me. "Number one, which of these is not like the others?"

Did he get these stuff from Sesame Street? He showed me pictures of a tomato, a cherry, a round red balloon and a banana. I know he was probably looking for the balloon as the answer, but that just seemed too easy. So I pointed to the banana because there first three were round and red, and the banana was not.

Dr. Hugely sighed and scribbled more notes. Maybe I should have chosen the red balloon? "Number two," he said. He showed me four more cards. This time there were pictures of a cow, a whale, a camel, and an elephant. "Which animal gives birth to a calf?"

Now I watch Animal Planet all the time. I know for sure that _all_ the animals he had pictured there had babies called a "calf". I thought doctors were supposed to be smart? What to do? I hit each picture slowly and carefully, then did it once more just to make sure he understood. He didn't.

I heard him mumble "cow" as he wrote more notes. It was clear he was giving up on me. I noticed a copy of _Goodnight Moon_ on his bookshelf. It was written in Spanish. It was called _Buenas Noches, Luna._ That would have been fun to look at, but I had no way of telling him I'd like to see the book.

After watching Sesame Street and Dora the Explorer at the time, sitting for hours watching the Spanish channels, I could understand quite a bit of Spanish if it was spoken slowly enough—and at least enough words to read the title of that book. He never thought to ask me about that, of course.

I knew the words and melodies of hundreds of songs—a symphony exploding inside my head with no one to hear it but me. But he never asked me about music. I could identify hundreds of words on sight. But that was all stuck inside.

Dr. Hugely, even though he had been to college for like, a million years, would never be smart enough to see inside me. So I put my handicapped face and watched as Dr. Hugely called mom in.

I'm always amazed at how adults assume I can't hear. They talk about me as if I'm invisible, figuring I'm too retarded to understand their conversation. I learn quite a bit this way. But this conversation was really awful. He didn't even try to soften the news to my mom, who, I'm sure, felt like she was getting hit by a truck.

He began to clear his throat. "Mrs. Santiago," he then said, "it is my opinion that Jacqueline is severely brain-damaged and profoundly retarded."

Whoa! Even though I was only five, I had watched enough Easter Seals telethons to know this was bad. Really bad. I felt a thud in my gut.

My mom gasped, then said nothing for a full minute. Finally she took a deep breath and protested quietly, "But I know she's bright. I can see it in her eyes."

"You love her. It's only normal to have wishful thinking," he told her gently.

"No, she has a spark. More than that—a flame of real intelligence. I just know it," my mother insisted, sounding a little stronger.

"It takes time to accept the limitations of a beloved child. She had cerebral palsy, Mrs. Santiago."

"I know the name of her condition, Doctor," my mother said with ice in her voice. "But a person is so much more than a name of a diagnosis on a chart!"

_Good try mom_, I was thinking. But already her voice was losing its edge, melting into the mushiness of helplessness. "She laughs at jokes, and I know she understands them!" Mom, I don't think that helped the situation.

Dr. Hugely looked from her to me. He shook his head. "You're lucky she has the ability to smile and laugh. But Jacqueline will never be able to walk on her own or speak a single sentence. She will never be able to feed herself, take care of her own personal needs, or understand anything more than simple instructions. Once you accept that reality, you can deal with the future." That was just plain mean.

My mom hardly ever cries. But she did that day. She cried, and cried, and cried. Dr. Hugely had to give her a whole box of tissues. Both of them ignored me while she sobbed and he tried to find nice words to say to make her feel better. He didn't do a very good job.

Finally he gave her options. "You and your husband have several decisions to make," he told mom. "You can choose to keep her at home, or you can send her to a special school for the developmentally disabled. There aren't many choices her locally."

Where do they get those almost-pleasant-sounding phrases to describe kids like me?

Dr. Hugely continued. "You can also decide to put her in a residential facility where she can be cared for and kept comfortable." He pulled out a colorful brochure with a smiling child in a wheelchair on the cover and handed it to my mom. I trembled as she took it.

"Let's see," the doctor said, "Jacqueline is, ah, five now. That's a perfect age for her to learn to adjust to a new environment. You and your husband can get on with your lives without her as a burden. In time, her memories of you will fade."

I stared at mom frantically. I didn't want to be sent away. At the time, it never occurred to me that I was a burden to them. Maybe it _would_ be easier for them if I weren't there. I gulped.

Mom wasn't looking at me. She was staring daggers at Dr. Hugely. She crumpled up the tissue she held and stood up. "Let me tell you something. There is no way in heaven or hell that we will be sending Jacqueline away to a nursing home!"

I blinked. Was this my mother? I blinked again and she was already up in Dr. Hugely's face, pointing a finger at him. "You know what?" She said angrily as she threw the brochure into the trashcan. "I think you're cold and insensitive. I hope you never have a child with difficulties—you'd probably leave it out with your trash!"

Dr. Hugely looked shocked.

"And what's more," she continued. "I think you're wrong—I know you are! Jacqueline has more brains than you'll ever have, despite those fancy degrees from fancy schools you've got posted all over your walls!"

It was the doctor's turn to blink.

"You've got it easy—you have all your physical functions working properly. You never have to struggle just to be understood. You think you're smart because you have a medical degree?"

He was wise enough to keep his mouth shut and ashamed enough to lower his head.

Mom was on a roll. "You're not so intelligent, sir—you're just lucky! All of us who have all our faculties intact are just plain blessed. Jacqueline is able to figure out things, communicate, and manage in a world where _nothing_ works right for her. She's the one with the true intelligence!"

She marched out of his office then, rolling me swiftly through the thick doors. In the hall we did a quick fist bump—well the best I could manage. My hands were no longer cold.

"I'm taking you right now and enrolling you at Spaulding Street Elementary School," she announced with determination as we headed back to the car. "Let's get busy!"

* * *

And that's how I ended up in public schools and academies. I was originally in Bunkyo Public School, but my mom thought I'd go for a more prestigious school. Even my teachers last year thought I'd give it a try. My classmates (notice how I don't say friends) even thought I should go for it. They doubted, but they did realize I was smart after taking like a million years just to figure it out.

"Are you nervous?" Mrs. V asked, looking at me as she put Penny on the couch as she slept, holding Nickel close to her. I pointed to the phrase **I don't know** on my communication board and she smiled. "I'm guessing that's a yes."

I nodded. "Don't be nervous Jackie, you'll be fine." I hope.

Since this was a prestigious school, I wondered if they had accepted me because they felt sorry, or because it would bring good publicity to the school for taking in someone like me. For sure, there had to be some ulterior motive for taking me as a student.

Mrs. V sat down next to me again. I had finished my meal and I was getting thirty. I pointed to **drink** on my communication board and she took out the red sippie cup from the dishwasher. As much as I hated to admit it, I loved the sippie cup. It was the only way for me to drink without soiling my clothes. Plus, I just found it cool that I throw it anywhere whenever I have one of my spasms and the content in it would never spill.

I saw Mrs. V filling it with my favorite soda, Coca-cola. Even though I know it is not good for me, the caffeine and carbonated water made me feel all tingly inside, and it was the closest thing I got to feeling like a normal person.

"Just remember Jackie," Mrs. V started as she held the sippie cup for me, "you're like Superman with superpowers. You may not know it yet, but you do. Your weakness is your kryptonite, your diagnosis."

I smiled. Superman was my favorite superhero. I liked to relate myself to him. Mostly because his weakness is almost similar to mine, it's so simple and small, but takes a big effect on the both of us. Like Superman had said. I'm only here to "make your job look easy."

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**Well here's chapter two, I hoped you don't mind that there isn't any Ouran High School characters introduced yet, but they will be soon! Leave reviews so I know what you think! Thanks for reading~ ^^**


	3. Chapter 3: Awkward

**I read the reviews and I forgot to mention that the idea is ENTIRELY inspired by Sharon Draper's "Out of My Mind". I forgot to give credit to the amazing author that made me cry when I read the story D: (I think that's why I didn't get to credit Sharon Draper, I was too busy using up all the tissues in my house when I read the story xD) Sorry about that! But it would only be the first and second chapter and a few characters that were from the book. From chapter three and so forth, it would all be from my ideas, just like how I originally planned to make this fan fiction. **

**Again, sorry for those who were wondering! And I suggest you all read the book, it really was a great one! I cried reading most of the chapters ;-; and thanks to those who mentioned the book in the reviews or else I would have totally forgot to credit Sharon Draper! **

**I do not own Ouran High School. All rights reserved to Bisco Hatori. **

**But I do own my original characters. Sharon Draper owns a few of the characters and the basic story line. *I just tweaked it a bit to match the idea I had in my head***

**Feel free to leave reviews~!**

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**Chapter 3**

**Third Person POV**

Jacqueline woke up to the sound of something sizzling in a frying pan, and automatically turned her head in her position. She looked around hazily and for a moment, her world was blurry before her eyes focused and she realized that she wasn't in the living room like she remembered to be in.

She was covered in blankets as she lay on a fluffy bed and her black hair was all over the place. She was still in the clothes she wore yesterday, but this time her shoes were off and the room was much smaller than the living room. Posters of her favorite k-pop groups and Korean actors and actresses were hung in the room. _I must be in my room,_ she thought. She laid there as she heard footsteps coming up the stairs and found her mother at the door, smiling at her.

"Good morning Jacqueline," Her mother piped happily when she saw Jacqueline was awake. "You might want to wipe your mouth, there's drool trailing down your chin."

Her mother came forward and quickly wiped it away and Jacqueline smiled in embarrassment when she touched the disgusting feel of saliva. Blinking once, she was welcomed by the smell of eggs and bacon. Just slightly can she smell the scent of roasted French coffee this early in the morning. It wasn't long before her mother dressed her in much more comfortable clothes and brought her to the kitchen.

There, she sat in one of her special chairs so she wouldn't fall off as she ate.

She watched as her mother walked toward a box in the living room, looking through it. "Jacqueline, do you remember when I told you that you would be starting school in Ouran Academy?" Jacqueline nodded when her mother looked at her. "Good, because today is your first day."

The sound of a fork falling onto the table was heard and the piece of toast hung from Jacqueline's mouth as she looked at her mother wide-eyed. Her arm must have had a spasm in shock. "What? Today is the 25th, the day you're supposed to start. Don't you remember?" Jacqueline shook her head slightly in response and Min sighed at her daughter. "Where have you been this whole week? I've been telling you almost everyday now."

Jacqueline only stared at her blankly. Min sighed and called Jose in to feed her as she went to lay out Jacqueline's clothes and everything.

***After twenty minutes***

"Come on Jacqueline! Just wear the uniform!" Min yelled, trying to put the dress over Jacqueline's head. She had just come from the shower so her hair was still dripping wet and when her eyes laid on the yellow dress, she immediately started throwing a tantrum.

_No, I don't want to, I don't want to, I don't want to!_ Jacqueline whined in her head as her mother pinned her down to the floor and put the dress over her head and pulled it down so she was completely wearing it. Jacqueline blew her bangs out of her face and looked at her mother with a pout. "Don't make that face, it's unappealing."

Jacqueline stopped and sighed, her mother was pulling on the collar of the dress. _Ugh, what the hell is this? I feel like I'm choking to death._ Min took out the blow dryer from the box and plugged it in, drying her daughter's hair like any mother would. Jacqueline just let her mother do whatever to her hair and she could feel her tying it into a high ponytail.

Min brushed out the knots and fixed Jacqueline's bangs so they were just framing her face. "You're all done now." Jacqueline laid still and Min tied the red ribbon to go around her neck under the collar. Reluctantly, Jacqueline endured her spasms to hit the ribbon out of her mother's hand and again, tried to fold the collar down so it wasn't completely choking her.

Curious to how she looked, Jacqueline pointed to the mirror in the small room and her mother helped her up to look at her reflection. The dress wasn't all that bad, well, if you weren't looking at the color, the puffy sleeves, the collar, the length, the puffiness under the skirt . . . okay maybe it was bad. Her mother handed her ankle high socks that were laced and a cute pair of black and beige lace-up oxford flats.

Jacqueline smiled when she saw the pair of shoes. They were her favorite pair, mostly because it was something that went with anything casually formal and it was comfortable to wear. Min put them on and was a bit more satisfied with how she looked now.

"Come on, your dad will be driving you to school."

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**Jacqueline's POV**

I swear I'm going to puke.

The school is pink,_ **pink**. _If anything, a five year old girl must have designed the school because it definitely was modeled after Barbie's magic castle or something. And I bet you a million dollars that is what people described the place.

My dad opened the door to the car and I happened to notice that there was no one in sight on campus. Was I late? Or was I too early? Dad carefully hoisted me and my dreaded pink wheelchair down to the ground and I can tell he was having a hard time. Sure I was in a wheelchair, but I do eat. Sitting on my butt all day and consuming large amounts of food to keep my energy up definitely wouldn't just go away, they stay and sleep in my stomach.

"Gosh Jackie, we'll need you to go on weight watchers or something," dad joked as he loosened the tight seat belt that was trapping my back too close to the back of my wheelchair. "What has Violet been giving you?"

Food, duh.

He closed the door and pressed the lock on the car as I started to wheel myself toward the gate—well as best as I can anyway. I can already feel my arms stiffening a bit as I continued to wheel myself.

"Whoa kiddo, calm yourself. I know you're excited and all, but there is no need to wheel yourself when I'm here," dad said, taking the handles on my wheelchair and pushed me with ease.

I sighed internally, but I let him. Well, there was obviously no way that I could protest anyway.

We were in the hallways for what seemed like hours as my dad looked for the office. It wasn't a surprise that the school was big, but we didn't think it was _**this **_big. We were definitely lost.

Dad stopped pushing my wheelchair and scratched his head a bit. "Weren't we just on this floor?" I pointed to **map **on my communication board and looked up to my dad the best as I can. He looked to me and shrugged. "As far as I can see Jackie, I see no map."

I pointed to that rectangular piece of paper that was pasted on the wall and my dad sweat dropped. He sheepishly pushed me forward and he looked at the map. It was in Japanese and Japanese was not dad's forte. He's Filipino, and lived in Japan for as long as I was born, but he never mastered the language. Here I was, able to read and understand Japanese, but I can't speak to tell my dad where the office was. Go figure.

I read that the office was just up the next floor and I banged my hand on the arm rest of my wheelchair and my dad looked at me. I moved my pointer finger up to indicate that it was on the next floor above, but he seemed to understand. He nodded and looked for the elevator they had in the school, which I was surprised was in here. I mean, how many kids in wheelchairs do you think attend this school? Especially one this big? _**None **_if you exclude me, of course.

The elevator was probably for those fat rich kids that think stairs are too overrated or for the clumsy students who end up using crutches due to a broken leg/foot. I think it's the first option.

The doors opened at the elevator made a _ding _sound and dad wheeled me out. I practically already memorized the map of the school, thanks to my photogenic memory, and led my dad where to go to get to the office.

Opening the door, we quietly came in and approached the lady at the desk. The lady stopped typing and looked at us with a polite smile. "How may I help you?"

Dad handed her a note mom had written and gave it back to him as she finished reading it. "Santiago-san, I'll be back in a minute to hand you your daughter's printed schedule. I assume you'll want a late pass also, correct?" the lady asked looking me and I nodded in response as the lady sashayed to the back of the room.

"Here you go Santiago-san," the lady said, minutes later. Dad took my schedule from the secretary and bowed a little.

We walked back to the elevator and made our way up toward my designated room. It wasn't before long when I found my room and looked through the window of the door. Oh my, that's a huge class.

I felt my dad squeeze his hand on my shoulder. He looked to me and I looked back. "Would you like it better if we came back tomorrow?"

Yes, please.

"Yeah I don't think so kiddo." I pouted as I looked on straight ahead blankly. Dad knocked on the door and the teacher stopped in the middle of his lecture. "How may I help you?"

"Hi, I'm here to drop off my daughter Jacqueline," Dad said. The teacher's eyebrows raised when he saw me and I can already see the students straining their necks to see me. Dad handed him the note and the teacher nodded.

"Oh you are the new transfer student. Come in, I'm Mr. Ayuzawa." He opened the door even wider to let the both of us in and all eyes were on me when dad wheeled me inside.

"It's okay Santiago-san, I'' call an aide to help Jacqueline-san throughout the day." Dad looked at me unsure but nodded anyway. _I'll pick you up after class, okay?_ he mouthed. I nodded slightly.

I looked to the class and they were all looking at me wide-eyed and surprised. Oh, well this is awkward . . .

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**Sorry, this was kind of short but I got lazy since I'm writing this all half asleep . I'll promise to have chapter four longer and better written than this one. But it might be updated until Sunday, so sorry in advanced! Thanks for reading!**


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